


The Dream Synopsis

by platonico



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jos Verstappen's A+ Parenting, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:07:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27602549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/platonico/pseuds/platonico
Summary: Spa, 2019. When it happens, Max knows he’s dreaming. He feels the helplessness lingering through his limbs, the way his tongue is stuck on his throat and can’t articulate any kind of word, while the only thing he wants to do is screaming.
Relationships: Daniel Ricciardo/Max Verstappen, Lando Norris/Carlos Sainz Jr, Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Comments: 6
Kudos: 89





	The Dream Synopsis

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, my fellow readers. This is my first fic, so please be kind!  
> Kudos and comments are really welcomed. 
> 
> The title is from a song called "The Dream Synopsis" by The Last Shadow Puppets, and I suggest you to give it a listen! 
> 
> Trigger warnings: suicidal thoughts, panic attack, mention of abuse.

_Tell me we were dead and I’ll love you even more._

_\- Richard Siken_

**Spa, 2019**

When it happens, Max knows he’s dreaming. He feels the helplessness lingering through his limbs, the way his tongue is stuck on his throat and can’t articulate any kind of word, while the only things he wants to do is screaming.

The day per se was really stressful, and he didn’t need to be reminded of that even in his daydreams. The entire paddock was still mourning the death of Anthoine happened the day before, the air so tense you could cut it with a knife. Max was not really near to him, like Charles and Pierre were, but still he couldn’t shake off the dread upon his shoulders, scared more than ever for his friends and himself. In addition, the race was a disaster: his poor gateway made him tangle with Raikkonen at Turn 1 on the first lap, breaking his front suspension and immediately after colliding with the barriers.

He jumped out of his single-seater boiling with anger and disappointment, so furious with himself and Kimi, thinking about the championship and doing the math in his head to know how many points he’ll need now to make up for it.

He returned to the paddock on his wobbly legs, the rush of adrenaline completely drained out of his system, leaving him with a bad headache and nothing else to do.

Finally, when he made his way to the motorhome and did some interviews ( _really_ , there wasn’t so much to say), he grabbed his things and left for the hotel.

Fumbling through his jean’s pockets he reached for the key and opened the door of his room, landing immediately face-down on the bed, his temples pulsing in an aching way.

At some point (he didn’t really know how much time he spent like that, too stranded on his thoughts that similarly resembled his father’s tone), he made his body get up and ordered some food: he hesitated for a moment, a voice making through his mind saying _you don’t deserve it_ , but his stomach was churning and he really didn’t have anything to eat since 8am.

The room was silent, apart from some noises coming from the hallway and outside: the drivers were all together in the same hotel, some even on the same floor. That explained why Max was hearing some French words here and there, definitely Charles and Pierre passing in front of his bedroom, talking to each other with low voices, like they were sharing some secrets.

For an instant, Max thought to go and congratulate with Charles for his first place (he found out watching the television, the Monegasque standing on the higher step with such a joy on his eyes that made Max want to tear off his skin), but at the end decided not to. He didn’t want to break the little moment he was having with Pierre, god knows if he walked in on them hugging, or even worse, _kissing_. He just couldn’t bear the embarrassment.

Still, he thought to grab some fresh air, so he headed to the glass sliding door, opened it and stepped on the balcony, a rush of cold wind hitting his cheeks, making his skin rise with goosebumps. He stood there, clutching to the railing so hard his knuckles became white, trying to ground himself and not having his thoughts to take control of his actions. He closed his eyes, trying to breathe evenly, but the image of his earlier accident still deep-rooted in his mind. What if he touched Kimi harder, making him flipping the entire way and maybe collapsing over the others? What if he took someone with him, during the clash into the wall? What if _he_ was the cause of some brutal collision he couldn’t forgive himself for? If. If. If. If.

That’s what was happening behind his closed eyelids, worst case scenarios tinged in black and red, _so much red_ , and the pallid faces of his friends, staring in his soul with their unblinking eyes. He wanted to make this all stop. He wanted to jump off that balcony right that second. He was already seeing headlines stating _Young Driver Max Verstappen, 22, Died Last Night by Jumping off His Hotel Room. Hypothesis of Suicide._

God, he even imagines who would find him the next morning, with his brains scattered on the cold tarmac, still wearing his Red Bull clothes. No, the sound would be so loud that someone would come outside of their bedroom _in that exact moment,_ looking below and be welcomed by the vision of puddled blue clothes with a beautiful lake of blood spreading underneath. There would be screaming, so much screaming, that everyone would stop what they were doing and rush outside.

The first one would be Lewis, _of course it would be Lewis_ , because he had just taken Roscoe for a walk after dinner, just to stretch his legs and relax after the race. He would be absolutely terrified ( _who wouldn’t?_ ), trying to come near and tell who is it, but the Red Bull clothes gives him away. He would be so shocked that he doesn’t take any step back; he would even drop Roscoe’s leash and stare at the pool of blood smearing at his feet. _It really looks black in the moonlight._

The receptionist would come outside just mere minutes after, her hands shaking while trying to call 911, shouting some Dutch words in the still air of the night. And then the paramedics would arrive, the same time when everyone has just gathered on the entrance, not wanting to interfere with the EMT.

Pierre and Charles would be there (they rushed from their bedroom the second they heard the loud thud of the body colliding with the asphalt), the latter sobbing in the blonde’s shoulder, clutching to his bicep and mumbling some French words. Pierre would try to be the tougher of the two, whispering sweet nothings into the ear of his devastated friend, his voice rough and full of tears as well.

Alex would be shaking on his feet, not even George’s hand in his stopping the tremors. Lando would be even in worse conditions than Charles, literally falling into pieces so much that Carlos would need to support him with his two arms, one on his waist and one on his arm, repeating over and over _it’s okay, cabron_ and shushing him.

And Daniel. _Oh, Daniel_. In another case, you would probably think he was doing some apnea competition. And he is winning _by a lot._ Max imagines that his lips would become so blue and his eyes so blown that Sebastian has to intervene, standing between him and the vision of the ambulance, trying to make him _breathe_. But then, Daniel would collapse on the ground, his knees making a thud on the hard concrete, and yell at the top of his lungs, like someone is torturing him.

At this point, Max’s imagination is so vivid that he thinks he’s really hearing Dan’s shouting and so he opens his eyes, only to be greeted by the twinkling lights of the city and the moon, silently watching over him.

He releases a breath he doesn’t know he was holding and realizes that he was _really_ listening to Daniel’s voice, only he’s not screaming in pain, but in laughter (maybe he’s not going crazy, after all).

He sticks out his head from the railing and sees the Aussie being chased by Esteban, in a sort of tag game, like kindergarten children. He smiles faintly: seeing Daniel so much happy after the terrible days he had ( _such in contrast with what he’s just imagined_ ), makes his mood a little bit better.

However, he overall feels exhausted, like he _actually_ jumped out of the balcony, but in some way survived. He comes back into his bedroom, put the phone on charge (he checks the time: 22.40) and changes in some pajamas. He sneaks under the covers shivering, the cold temperature of outside still in his bones, and finally tries to sleep.

So yeah, he _knows_ he is dreaming. He remembers falling asleep. But still, everything feels too much real.

He’s back at the track ( _but he clearly remembers coming back to the hotel last night_ ), and he’s trying to gain some positions after his bad start.

The thing is, he knows he can’t do it, but he tries anyway. He has nothing to lose — it is the last lap after all.

But something doesn’t go as he planned, and when he makes contact with Sainz ( _or was it Kimi?_ ), his front tyre just explodes.

The possibility that accidents happen together is slim to none, but in Max’s daydreams everything is possible. As he loses control of the car (his foot won’t lift from the gas pedal and his left thumb can’t reach the Neutral button), he just knows he’s going to crash into the barriers, but there is someone already there. In the blur of the moment, he sees some yellow in front of him and his blood runs cold. He knew that some Renault was behind him, but he surely didn’t expect to have crashed at the same exact moment as the other car.

The impact is so imminent and there is nothing much he can do: he tries to scream and to make the car just _stop_ , but it’s aimless. The crash doesn’t come though (he’s still dreaming, isn’t he?), and instead he finds himself out of the car someway, watching the two shattered cars smoking. He’s relived to see his limbs are still attached to his body, but he’s immediately hit with worry when he doesn’t see another driver around.

He hurries next to the Renault’s single seater: he looks at the fire spiking up from the rear wing and doesn’t like it _at all_. He tries to wave off the smoke, but it’s so difficult to see anything, let alone help the other driver out. But at some point, his vision becomes clearer and catches a glimpse of a pink and blue helmet and his heart drops at the pit of his stomach.

Daniel lies unconscious on his seat, seatbelts still on. One could think he was just sleeping, apart for the rivulets of blood rolling around his neck and shoulders.

Max tries to shake him, screaming for help through the cloud of smoke that it’s gradually encircling him, but no one answers. No one comes.

He lifts Dan’s visor and doesn’t meet the Aussie’s brown eyes, but only shut eyelids. He tries to take a pulse through the cheek pads, but the helmet is too tight. He yells and yells and yells but still no one answers, and he’s suffocating, the smoke filling his lungs, and he tries to scream but nothing comes through and he is sure he is going faint and

He wakes up screaming and with a sudden urge to vomit. He barely makes it to the bathroom, stumbling on his feet and into the toilet, trying miserably to turn the light on in the making. He retches all his dinner, one, two, three times, until he heaves green bile and saliva, snot coming through his nose.

He takes a few breaths and stands up, dragging his limbs near the sink and washes his mouth and face with freezing water, struggling to make the nightmare leave his eyelids. He scrubs his skin like it’ll physically make the images go away, but he’s only left with irritated skin and stingy eyes. He doesn’t bother to see his reflection on the mirror — he just shuts the light off and storms out of his bedroom. He just _needs_ to know if Daniel is alright. He doesn’t care if it was just a dream, everything seemed so real nonetheless.

He stands in the middle of the hotel hallway trying to remember the Aussie’s hotel bedroom number, his labored breath the only noise audible. He really hopes no one comes out right now, especially if it’s one of his friends, but it’s late at night anyway and they all have to catch an early flight tomorrow (today?), so it won’t be a problem (he really didn’t scream _that_ loud, did he?).

He concentrates hard, even if he’s still crying silently and his sobs attempt to come out of his throat, and navigates through his memories to find the right number.

Daniel told him it earlier that week, on Thursday afternoon, when they arrived together on Max’s private jet. People may think that now they’re not on the same team anymore, they won’t hang out with each other at all, let alone arrive with the same plane. But many don’t understand that their friendship has become something real through the years, and they don’t like each other just for the sake of the team.

So Daniel informed Max because he is _his_ friend, and even joked about coming and visiting him some nights, so they could do nasty things together (at this point, Dan winked at the Dutch, who blushed so hard he was glad it was cold and had a fair reason to bury his head on the coat).

Anyway, Max’s bedroom was number 30 and he was certain that Daniel was on the same floor as him, but the hallway was so long, and he could go both left and right. This meant he would simply spend the night anxiously running to one part to the other, without any result.

He was going backwards with his thoughts to that damn Thursday afternoon, replaying his friend’s words over and over, when it finally hits him: he remembers Dan smiling at his own key, saying that they should have swapped rooms because his bedroom was

number 33.

Just like his driver’s number.

It didn’t took so much time to find it, since he was so close, and then when he arrived he began to bang the wooden door so hard he thought it would break. He didn’t care if he was going to wake up the neighboring rooms, he just wanted to see Daniel.

The Aussie just opened the door in briefs, his curly hair all ruffled and his brown eyes barely opened. When he saw Max though, he came fully aware and whispered “What are you doing here?”

Dan didn’t even have the time to register it, that Max literally jumped on him and hugged him so tightly he couldn’t breathe. What was the calm and the rationality the younger one used before to find him, crumbled into wrecking sobs, only interrupted by some _Het spijt mij_ here and there _._

Daniel himself didn’t know how to react: not because he was three in the morning and not completely awake yet, but because he had never seen his friend so distraught.

Back in the day, when they were young and in the same team, Daniel witnessed so many of these moments, but they were nothing compared to this. He remembers when Max first arrived, so raw and full of energy buzzing under his skin, the mentality of a future world champion already ingrained in his mind at the sole age of 20. He remembers the anger and the short temper, and the way the younger one would beat himself up every time he did a slight mistake.

He even remembers the first time he really heard Max and his father arguing in the adjacent room, so loud and clear that even his Beats couldn’t prevent the yelling. And he also remembers the way a soft knock came to his door much later and he sprinted to open it, noticing how the shouting had stopped in the making as well.

He recalls an embarrassed Max standing there in front of him, eyes glued to the floor as he apologizes for the noises with a breathy voice, while silent tears were cascading on the ground, making dark circles on the carpeting. He then met Dan’s gaze, smiling timidly even though his lips were trembling, trying to repress a sob of escaping.

Daniel was a little taken aback by the sudden vision of the younger, accustomed to seeing him always fierce and brave, like a lion he was. Nonetheless, he couldn’t prevent from asking “Are you okay?” with uncertainty in his eyes, afraid that Max would recoil and run from him.

What he came across with though, was a quiet shake of the head and one moment after he found himself startled by the force of a hug, the 20-year-old crushing him, clutching at his shirt and sobbing on his shoulder.

Daniel remembers the sudden panic overflowing through his body, not knowing what to do and _mostly_ how to help his friend, because his breath was ragged and uneven, and he _wouldn’t just stop shaking_.

So he attempted to do what his mother had done long time ago, when he would wake from eerie nightmares: he just soothed him in every way possible, mumbling reassuring words and waiting for Max to come down from his anxious state.

When finally the younger one has stopped crying, he just excused himself, babbling that these things don’t happen so frequently (and especially _not_ to him, because he is daring and fearless and strong) and just ran from Dan’s room, leaving the Aussie speechless.

From that time on, Daniel began to search things up: how to help someone in a panic attack, what to do, what to say and how to behave (and he _certainly_ didn’t search how to know if someone is being abused, because he deleted that from his Safari’s history. Just in case).

He even asked to his mental coach, lying about how _he_ was having problem with his anxiety. Anything to help his friend, really (because after that, Max seemed to become closer and closer to him, maybe scared that Daniel would say something to anyone, _especially_ to his father. But none of that happened, and their work-related relationship slowly developed in a deep friendship).

So, when Daniel came across with this terrible situation, he just knew what to do. Theoretically speaking. He was just startled by the amount of panic and alarm and confusion that his friend was in.

He tried to cradle the Dutch’s air through his fingers, moving his other hand up and down his back, whispering “It’s okay, I’m here _”_ like a litany, but nothing seemed to be working.

Daniel was so scared that Max could begin to hyperventilate and faint, that he took his friend’s face into his hands, caressing his cheeks to brush away the never-ending tears and looked at him with comforting eyes.

When he found the voice, he began to say “Hey, hey, hey. Try to match my breath, yeah?” and took Max’s hand over his heart _._

“You see? I’m safe and I’m here, and there’s nothing to be scared of. Can you take some big breaths for me, Maxy, please?”

The pet name made Max suddenly became aware of his surroundings, like shaking him off of a trance, and for the first time he heard Dan’s voice without the ringing in his ears.

He tried to do what he was told, but the mere result was a loud sob escaping through his teeth.

“Let’s do it together.” Daniel said, trying to reassure him in every way possible, continuing to caress his cheeks and swab away the tears that won’t seem to _stop falling._

The room was filled only with the two of them taking big breaths one after another, and at some point (Dan doesn’t know how much they stood like that, but his legs ache for making his friend stand up the whole time) Max seemed to calm down, trembling with weariness. The Aussie made the last effort to hold him up and make him sit on the edge of his bed, searching for a bottle of water and some tissues.

He reappeared beside him, sitting so close that his bare knee was touching the other one’s pajamas; he cradled Max’s jaw into his palm, making him look into his brown eyes while trying to clean the tear streaks off his face. After that, he smiled reassuringly and offered him the water bottle.

They both didn’t talk, the only sound given by Max’s Adam apple going up and down while gulping water, like someone he has lived his entire life in the desert.

When he had finished it, he just left the plastic bottle on the floor and proceeded to rest his check on Dan’s shoulder, sighing loudly.

At this point, the older one sneaked an arm behind his friend’s waist, clutching at the fabric of the other’s shirt, saying in a kind of way _I’m not going to leave you._

The time was stretching out, like stopping just for the two of them in that nameless hotel bedroom. They stayed like that for minutes that seemed like hours, seeking each other’s comfort.

From the first time since yesterday, Max’s thoughts pretended to stop, like calming waves hitting the seashore after a huge storm, the repeating rise and fall of the sea like a lullaby.

It was a long time since he had broken down like that in front of someone, but he was glad it was Daniel. Even if the trigger of his panic attack wouldn’t have been the Aussie himself, he had probably come to him otherwise. He knew he could count on him, especially on these weak moments, and the same went for the other.

Max knew that Alex just couldn’t understand, _or better_ , just couldn’t help him the way Dan did. It’s not he doesn’t like Alex, or doesn’t trust him, but their relationship is more formal than everything. Plus, he can’t bear the thought of another person seeing him so weak and vulnerable; he was a formula one driver for god’s sake, he needed to be seen invincible.

Still, when he had found himself between Dan’s arms, he felt like his shining armor was cracking, letting out crevices of light. It was in moments like that, when Daniel’s low voice, a little rough but steady, says “I’m here if you want to talk”, that Max’s house of cards completely crumbles, because he finally feels safe and secured and _loved._

He doesn’t want to talk about it. He simply doesn’t trust his voice with it. He knows that if he speaks, he’ll begin to cry again, hiccups breaking his sentences and the images still fresh behind his eyes.

Instead, he just says, “Can we sleep?” with some shyness on his tone that he feels like a child, asking his mother to stay with him until he falls asleep.

Daniel can’t refuse that; he knows it is still early in the morning and they have to catch an early flight, so they both need some extra hours.

He unfolds his arm behind Max’s waist and gently takes his hand, guiding him to the right side of the bed. He disentangles the covers from the end of the bed (he stood up so fast before, that he literally threw the sheets on the floor) and slides underneath, wrapping them around his friend and himself.

Max immediately slots under his chin, making himself as tiny as possible, shifting his arm around Dan’s waist and breathing loudly. He missed this so much.

Daniel just lays his cheek on top of his blonde hair, and kisses his temple for the longest time, hoping that would soothe him. He makes himself comfortable, intertwining both his legs and arms around the younger’s figure.

Just before Max closes his eyes and drifts into blackness, he hears a whisper saying, “I’ll watch over you”.

He falls asleep listening to Daniel’s steady heartbeat and his soft breath tousling his hair.

The next morning everything feels like so surreal. Max is the first one to wake up, and he panics a little when he feels someone’s lips lightly touching the nape of his neck, but then the memories hit him and remembers the events of last night.

They shifted during the night, so now Daniel is snoring a little, his lips just slightly apart and an arm draped over him, not letting him go either in his sleep. Even if Max is the tallest one of the two, he likes being the little spoon. It overwhelms him with comfort and heat and the feeling of assurance.

He tries to disentangle from Dan’s grip without waking him up, but his movements are pointless and he hears the Aussie stirring behind him. He rotates his body, just so he can watch Daniel’s face, and he’s greeted by some warm chocolate brown eyes and a beaming smile.

Max shuffles, a little in awe of Dan’s beauty, and murmurs a little “Good morning”, causing Dan to grin even more and reciprocate with a hoarse “’Morning”, his Australian accent marked than ever.

He rearranges himself closer, until he hears the Aussie’s heartbeat, and without even knowing it, Max starts to tell him about the last night.

He tells him about his thoughts on the balcony, the way he was feeling miserable and worthless, how the only thing he wanted to do was _disappear_.

He tells him about his nightmare, the accident distinctly mirroring Anthoine’s one and how _he_ was the cause of it.

He says how sorry he is, to show up in the middle of the night without any warning, threatening to rip the door from its hinges.

He begins to stutters and babbling and loosing himself a little, mixing Dutch and English words, until Dan shushes him and holds him tighter.

The Aussie is _definitely not going to cry_ , but he can’t lie to himself when he feels his eyes stinging and tearing up. He didn’t know Max was such in a bad mental state, and blames himself for not noticing before; but how could he have, since they’re not present every second of each other’s life like before.

(Dan attributes that to the little time their busy lives reserve for social interactions, especially now that they have different teams, but he knows it’s not. He thinks about at all the moments they could have been together and occasions in where he noticed Max was a little bit sad and gloomy, but thought he was not his business _anymore_. God, he was so wrong.)

When he recollects his breath and finds himself calmer, the Dutch repeats another time “I’m sorry, I think I should go” and stands up from the bed. Dan does too and takes him to the door.

Max is trying to apologize again, but Daniel stops him right away, saying that it’s okay he doesn’t need to, he is here for that, _that’s what friends are for_ , and proceed to hug him close.

Max exchanges the hug lingering just a little more, and when he has to detach himself for his friend is thinking of not leaving, missing his flight and just standing there, between Dan’s arms.

When he finally steps out of the hotel room, he’s like back into the real world, his little peaceful microcosm already scattered. He reorganises his thoughts and breathes fully and slowly, heading to his suite with his mind at peace for the first time.

**Author's Note:**

> The quote at the beginning is from Richard Siken’s poem “Seaside Improvisation” (definitely check it out).
> 
> Het spijt mij – “I’m deeply sorry” in Dutch.
> 
> It really looks black in the moonlight. – quote from tv show Hannibal, 3x13.
> 
> Thanks for sticking through the end of the chapter!  
> You can find my tumblr [here](https://vershstappen.tumblr.com/)


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